


Taking Some Pictures or Something

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Series: Summer Omens [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Takes a Nap (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Road Trips, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Summer Omens (Good Omens), Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27438574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: On a road trip to the South Downs Crowley gives Aziraphale his phone to take photos of the views. However, Aziraphale doesn't know how the phone works and spends all day accidentally posting to Crowley's Instagram story.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836280
Comments: 24
Kudos: 144





	Taking Some Pictures or Something

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Summer Omens prompt ROAD TRIP, inspired by [this post](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/629533356348063744/aziraphale-sitting-in-the-passenger-seat-of-the), and originally posted [here](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/634144286263345152/road-trip).

Crowley collapses on the bookshop’s sofa, exhausted after a day of driving, even after the nap he had this afternoon.

“Cup of tea?” asks Aziraphale from above him.

“Yes, thanks, angel.”

“Here’s your phone back, by the way.” Aziraphale lays Crowley’s phone on his chest before walking away.

Crowley had given Aziraphale his phone earlier that morning as they’d set off for the South Downs. The journey was going to be longer than their usual trips because Crowley had decided to take the scenic route. He knew Aziraphale could get restless on long stints in the Bentley, so Crowley thought getting him to take some photos of the views might help keep him occupied.

It had worked. Aziraphale seemed to enjoy himself taking photos of the scenery and his food, as well as a few sneaky photos and videos of Crowley. He’ll have to delete those.

After picking up and unlocking his phone, the first thing Crowley notices are the notifications. Hundreds of them. All from Instagram. His stomach plummets as he starts to imagine what kind of photo Aziraphale has accidentality uploaded to his account.

Crowley has a carefully cultivated Instagram feed of stark, minimalist photos in monochrome colours. He has several hundred thousand followers, all of which he _earned_ —not a demonic miracle in sight. One blurry, unfiltered photo of some cows in a field could undo it all.

Clicking with trepidation, Crowley opens the app. Some of the notifications are for likes and comments on his photos, but the overwhelming majority are direct messages. The little arrow in the top left is lit up red with a very high number in it.

The first thing Crowley does is check his profile. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding—there are no new photos on his feed. But his relief is short-lived. While there are no new photos on his feed, there is a red circle around his profile picture. He swallows. Crowley never posts to his Instagram stories. His feed is meticulous; stories are more laid back. Crowley prefers to keep an air of mystery about himself and has never bothered posting a story.

Before he can press his thumb on his profile picture, Crowley is distracted by the sound of the kettle whistling from the kitchen. It’s quickly silenced as Aziraphale prepares their tea.

“Angel?” Crowley calls, loudly enough for Aziraphale to hear him.

“Yes, dear?”

“Did you find the camera app on my phone okay? I told you it was the icon that looked like a camera, right?”

“I’m not completely stupid, Crowley.” As he speaks, Aziraphale wanders back into the room and puts two steaming cups of tea down. “It was hard to miss, little image of a camera in a bright pink circle.”

Crowley grabs his cup, takes a large gulp of too-hot tea, and savours the burn in his throat.

“It seemed a little convoluted, having to then press _another_ little camera in the top left.” Aziraphale frowns, but shrugs it off. “Though I did enjoy being able to add text and those little faces and things.”

“ _Emojis_ ,” Crowley squeaks out.

Oblivious to Crowley’s distress, Aziraphale carries on as if everything is absolutely fine.

“I’m just going to nip upstairs. I’m fairly sure I left my copy of Middlemarch on the bedside table the other night while you were sleeping. Back in a jiffy.”

As Aziraphale heads for the stairs, Crowley bites the bullet and plays his Instagram story.

Even as the first image loads, Crowley notices the multiple tiny pale lines at the top of the screen. Aziraphale apparently took _a lot_ of photos. Fuck.

The first photo is of Aziraphale’s feet in the foot well of the Bentley, his tin of biscuits between his feet. This must have been right at the start of their journey, before Aziraphale moved the tin to the back seat foot well.

In the second photo, Aziraphale has managed to swap to the front camera. It shows his eyes, forehead, a puff of white fluffy hair, and the roof of the Bentley. It also has black text that reads, ‘ _Did I send that photo somewhere?_ ’ Despite himself, Crowley smiles.

Next is a photo of Crowley driving, both hands of the wheel, relaxed in his seat, and looking at the road ahead. He might not get complaints about unsafe driving, at least.

After this is a photo of Aziraphale’s knees, covered in his neatly-pressed pale trousers. Over them is another message in black: ‘ _I can write on every photo?_ ’

Crowley wonders why Aziraphale didn’t ask him these questions at the time. Who he thought he _was_ asking. If his hundreds of messages are people trying to answer them for him.

The next photo is of Crowley driving again. This time he’s looking at the camera, and Crowley remembers Aziraphale saying his name, telling him to smile for the camera. Along the bottom of the photo, in red text, it says, ‘ _He’s only driving 20mph over the limit!_ ’ Crowley chokes on air and hopes fervently that his followers think it’s a joke.

Finally, there is a photo of fields and hills and blue skies. In yellow some text reads, ‘ _Crowley says I should be taking photos of the view…_ ’ Crowley had said that.

Instead of more scenery, the next photo is a zoomed in shot of Crowley’s face. It’s in profile—he is looking at the road again. Just under Crowley’s chin there is red text reading, ‘ _This is the view_ ❤️’ Crowley does not melt into a puddle on the bookshop’s sofa, but only through sheer force of will.

Crowley blinks when the next photo is more greenery, but a blurry, obviously hurried shot. The yellow text here says, ‘ _Will Crowley see these??_ ’ and Crowley lets out a bark of laughter into the silent shop.

“What’s so funny?” asks Aziraphale as he comes back down the stairs.

“I’m looking at the photos you took,” replies Crowley as he presses a finger to the screen to pause the story.

“Oh, they did save then? I didn’t understand where I was sending them!”

Crowley smiles. “Yeah, they saved, angel.”

“Budge up then, let me see.” Aziraphale picks up his cup of tea and nudges Crowley along the sofa before easing himself down beside him.

Crowley holds the phone between them, letting Aziraphale see the blurry photo and text he’s paused on.

“Ah, well,” says Aziraphale a little sheepishly. “I suppose that answers that question.”

Instead of replying, Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s knee and lifts his finger to continue the story.

The next few photos are of actual views from the window of the Bentley. There is not a blurry field of cows insight. Crowley almost feels disappointed.

He cheers up when a photo of a cafe appears. It’s the one they’d stopped at for lunch.

“Food photos ahead,” says Crowley as he glances at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiles back at him nervously. Crowley frowns and quickly looks back at his phone.

Instead of the food he had expected, the next photo is of Crowley. He is sitting across from Aziraphale, elbow on the table, and head resting in his palm. Crowley’s eyes aren’t visible beneath his sunglasses, but Crowley knows they are closed. Added to the photo is the sleeping face emoji, tipped slightly to one side to match the tilt to Crowley’s head.

“I wasn’t asleep!” cries Crowley, pausing the story with his thumb and whipping around to face Aziraphale.

“My dear, I pointed the phone right at you, said ‘ _Say cheese!_ ’ and took that photo without you moving a muscle or telling me to bugger off. You were _sound_ asleep.”

“I was just resting my eyes… and my ears.”

Aziraphale just hums and turns back to the phone.

Next up _is_ a photo of Aziraphale’s food, blurry though it is. Crowley raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale notices, though, if his mumbled, “I was hungry and in a hurry to eat,” is anything to go by.

Following the blurry plate of food is a much clearer photo of Aziraphale’s empty plate. The knife and fork are placed together, resting horizontally across the plate. Above the plate Aziraphale has typed one word: ‘ _Scrummy!_ ’ Crowley’s hand, still resting on Aziraphale’s knee, squeezes again.

Food eaten, the next photo is of a sign that says ‘1 million books’ and an arrow pointing to the left. Underneath Aziraphale has added the words, ‘ _We did not turn left_ 😢’

“You didn’t tell me you wanted to go look at books, angel,” says Crowley as his thumb touches the screen again.

“I always want to look at books, dear, you know that. But it’s fine—we can go back another day when we have more time.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale for any sign that he’s actually upset about missing the books. He doesn’t see any, and mentally starts planning a trip back to this particular small town in a few weeks.

Next up in the story are a few more scenery photos, followed by a particularly gorgeous view. Crowley remembers, because he had pulled off the road to fully enjoy the sight himself. In the foreground of the photo sits the Bentley, with Crowley leaning against the bonnet. His body is facing the view, but his head is turned back to look at Aziraphale. In red text are the words, ‘ _The perfect view_ ❤️’ and Crowley feels himself turning to liquid again.

Then there is a view of a long winding road ahead of them out of the Bentley’s windscreen, followed quickly by Aziraphale first video. It is short and blurry, starting at his knees before he lifts the phone and points it out of the window at the scenery whizzing by at speed.

The photo following the video is of Crowley’s hand resting on the gear stick. Aziraphale has also included the text. ‘ _I can record video?_ ’ Crowley laughs.

“Why did you write that? Had you not asked me already?”

“Once I’d sent the image wherever it goes I realised I wasn’t going to get an answer, so I thought it better to ask you.”

The next video has started, and it is of the hills and the trees and the sky moving past from the Bentley’s passenger side window. In the background Queen’s You’re My Best Friend can be heard playing.

Crowley has a sneaking suspicion he knows what’s coming next.

His fears are confirmed when, sure enough, the next video shows Crowley in the diver’s seat swaying his body to the beat and singing along to Don’t Stop Me Now. He drops his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and groans.

Crowley can _feel_ Aziraphale beaming with joy.

“I’m so glad this one was saved!”

At least 30 long seconds pass before video-Crowley turns to the camera and says, ‘ _Are you filming me!?_ ’ Aziraphale can be heard giggling from behind the camera before the video stops.

“I hate you,” Crowley grumbles from Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I love you too,” replies Aziraphale.

Then it’s back to photos, with an image of the open tin of biscuits on Aziraphale’s lap with his hand in shot, hovering and deciding which biscuit to eat.

Next is a photo of two pairs of legs—one in tidy pale trousers, the other in tight black jeans—stretched out on a blanket. In the distance more grass and hills and sky can been seen. Crowley feels the corners of his mouth tug up.

Crowley’s smile drops when he sees the next photo. It is him, laying on his back on the blanket. His sunglasses are off and his eyes are closed. Across his chest there is text reading, ‘ _Sleepy demon_ 😴❤️’

With an involuntary squeak, Crowley elbows Aziraphale in the ribs. Aziraphale responds with a fond chuckle and a kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

“You look adorable when you sleep.”

Refusing to dignify that slander with a response, Crowley simply watches as the photo is followed up by a video. It starts with an open book in Aziraphale’s lap and pans up over Aziraphale’s legs, the edge of the blanket and the sun-covered hills in the distance. Along the bottom on the video are the words, ‘ _Perfect afternoon!_ ’

Next is a photo showing Crowley’s back as he walks down a secluded path. He is a step or two ahead of Aziraphale, but his arm is stretched behind him and he is holding Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley rolls his eyes at such a clichéd image, even though Aziraphale can’t have known how overdone this pose is.

Following the hand holding photo is an image of a house at the end of a lane. It is a moderately sized red brick building with a lush, overgrown garden. There is a for sale sign barely visible amongst the bushes. Crowley remembers passing it on their walk. Across the roof Aziraphale has typed, ‘ _I wish we lived here._ ’

Crowley turns slightly to look at Aziraphale, who is gazing fondly at the photo. He adds a couple of other items to his mental itinerary for their next trip.

A quick glance to the pale lines at the top of the screen tells Crowley there aren’t many photos left.

The next few photos are more scenery shots. Although they are exactly what he had wanted Aziraphale to take photographs of when he gave him the phone, Crowley can only feel sad there aren’t more of the personal photos.

A short video of Aziraphale’s hand waving at the view makes Crowley grin. It’s accompanied by the text, ‘ _Goodbye South Downs, we’ll visit again soon!_ ’

It’s followed by a selfie of the two of them that Crowley doesn’t remember being taken. Crowley is facing the road, mouth open, obviously singing along to more Queen. Aziraphale is facing the camera, smile wide and happy and gorgeous. He has added the text, ‘ _Thank you for a lovely day, my love_ ❤️’ Before Crowley can let himself get too soft, the photo changes again.

This time it’s a photo of a familiar Soho street, with the bookshop just visible in the distance. It’s accompanied by one word and one emoji: ‘ _Home_ ❤️’

That’s the last photo. The screen jumps back to Crowley’s Instagram profile. Beside him on the bookshop’s sofa, Aziraphale sighs contentedly. Crowley realises he hasn’t even looked at the number of views the story has so far. He finds he doesn’t care, even if every one of his followers has seen it all.

“Another cup of tea, I think. Then shall we order takeaway? I think I’d like to stay in this evening.”

“Sounds great, angel,” replies Crowley automatically.

As Aziraphale gets up to make more tea, Crowley clicks on the little arrow and finally checks his direct messages. He scrolls swiftly through the hundreds of accounts, catching sight of similar messages again and again.

‘ _Who’s the blond?_ ’  
‘ _You guys are so sweet!_ ’  
‘ _Damn, you can sing!_ ’  
‘❤️❤️❤️’  
‘ _Blondie is cute…_ ’  
‘ _*happy sigh*_ ’  
‘ _Nice view indeed_ 👀’   
‘ _Is that your boyfriend?_ ’   
‘ _You’d better buy him that house!_ ’  
‘ _So freaking adorable!_ ’  
‘ _Does your partner have an insta?_ ’

Without conscious thought Crowley drops his phone onto the sofa and stands. He walks with purpose to the kitchen, where Aziraphale is just putting the kettle on to boil. Crowley takes his arm and turns Aziraphale around.

“Crowley, are you—”

Crowley cuts him off with a kiss. When he pulls back, Crowley’s hands come up to cradle Aziraphale’s face.

“We’re getting you an Instagram account,” says Crowley without preamble.

“Excuse me? Why?” asks Aziraphale, before frowning and asking, “What’s that?”

Crowley laughs, light and full of love, and pulls Aziraphale in for a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
